


Love that comes, love that goes away

by MaChi1993



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kissing, M/M, Marriage, Minor Chris Argent/Melissa McCall, Minor Lydia Martin/Jordan Parrish, Minor OC Female Character, Minor OC Male Character, Other, Peter Hale is a Little Shit, Slow Burn, Stiles is little shit too, how do you tag fic inspired by italian singers?, post-season 6, potential spoilers for season 6, this fic is happier than it looks i swear
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-10 17:52:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 9,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8926600
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaChi1993/pseuds/MaChi1993
Summary: Stiles didn't hate Peter per se, even though he threaten his friends on multiple occasions, and for what he forced Lydia to do. He could actually understand him on some levels: there wasn't a word to describe what he felt when his mother died, he could barely imagine what it was like to lose your entire family in a fire, watching them burn while you couldn't do anything to save them, and pass the next six years in a coma, trapped in your own body, slowly healing every bit of your skin and organs without the last two living members of your family to support you.To a degree, he also understood why Peter felt necessary to ally himself with Kate Argent: he lost his family because his alpha sister refused to take precautions against Gerard, and he saw history repeat itself with Scott - who, despite having always the best of intentions, was doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over again.It made a terrible, twisted sense; as twisted and terrible as Peter was after all.





	1. A song for a lost love

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Bluemerrow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bluemerrow/gifts).



> Here it goes! Happy Steter Secret Santa to everyone!  
> What can I say? That this is my first fic about TW? Also the first about Steter? Also that this is the first time I'm doing a secret santa? That I'm sorry for the mistakes, English is not my first language and i'm doom to do mistakes? Who knows!
> 
> Anyway, this fic is for cutestallen on tumblr, go check them out!  
> I'll post next chapter tomorrow, one for each day for five days, and that means the last chapter will be posted in Christmas cutestallen, I hope this is ok, if not let me know and I'll post everything as soon as possible!  
> And shout out to @InsertImaginativeNameHere for betaing the story and generally being amazing!
> 
> Hope you guy had like this, and see you tomorrow!
> 
> PS: Chapter's name are from an Italian singer's song titles, Fabrizio de André, roughly translated by be. If you have the chance to listen to him, do it: he's one of out best singer of all time.

Stiles sighed, looking at the rearview mirror one last time before getting out from his good old jeep and proceeding to the entrance of the building where Derek lived, and where Malia was waiting for him to go to Lydia’s birthday party - because that day was one of the ‘Pass some time with your biological father’ day, and going back home to her adoptive father would have been a useless effort. So here he was, wearing a black suit with a blue navy shirt under it, waiting for Malia to get down and go to celebrate Lydia’s 18th year on earth, where the best of the entertainment would be stopping Malia from mauling every drunk and hormone-drive adolescent who dared to be disrespectful to her or to her friends with unwanted attention. Yay for him. 

He pressed on the doorbell and waited for Malia to come down. Surprisingly enough, the person who open the main door wasn’t a werecoyote, but a werewolf; a werewolf who was supposed to be dead a very long time ago. 

“Oh perfect,” he murmured while Peter Hale exited the building.

“Good evening to you too, Stiles,” Peter said, smirking as he looked at him from head to toe. Stiles shivered.

“Is Malia still in Derek’s apartment?”

“She’s preparing herself yet. You can’t expect a girl who lived eight years of her life as a coyote to be practised at makeup and dressing elegantly for a party as dictated by society.” 

“God forbid that you help her, uh?” Stiles said, rocking on his heels a few time to warm himself.

“Actually, I tried, but it seems that  _ someone  _ told her to not trust the ‘psychopathic zombie wolf’ and anything that comes from his mouth,” Peter replied with a mocking tone. Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Don’t make that face, Stiles. You will admit that it’s kinda annoying seeing how every attempt that I made to try to bond with my biological daughter inevitably fails because her ‘boyfriend’ can’t stop saying bad things about me.”

“Every attempt of your fails because you are a psychopathic zombie werewolf with homicidal tendencies that should have stayed dead, not because I simply tell the truth to Malia,” Stiles replied, getting angry when Peter’s smirk didn’t diminish so much as a millimeter, the damn bastard.

“If you think that will hurt me, Stiles, then you don’t know me very well.”

Stiles winced when the other extended his arms, and he was ready to yell and throw the little bottle of mountain ash he always carried with him at the werewolf, but he stopped when Peter simply started to mold his tie. He remained completely still, expecting claws popping out from the fingertips of the fingers fixing first his tie and then his collar, ready to jab in his throat at any moment; his heart beat fast, something that he was sure Peter could perfectly hear.

“Your tie is a mess, did the dear Sheriff not even have the time to teach you to put it properly?” Peter asked, his smirk sharper than usual; the smile of someone who knew where and how hard to hit. Stiles bit his lip before backing away and hit Peter’s hands away.

“I hate you,” he almost growled, pouring in those three words more than the rage for a wicked joke addressed to his father’s parenting skills.

 

_ I hate you because of what you did to Scott. _

 

_ I hate you for what you did to Lydia. _

 

_ I hate you for what you still do to Derek _

 

_ I hate you for what you could do to Malia.  _

 

_ I hate you for what you did and could do to me.  _

 

Peter shook his head, obviously amused, and opened his hands in surrender. “Oh, forgive me Stiles, did the  _ truth  _ hurt your poor feelings?”

“Shut up!” Stiles spit before opening the main door and running up the stairs to Derek’s loft to work out his anger - Malia was probably already nervous, at least he should stay as calm as possible to not freak her out even more.

When he arrived in front of Derek’s door, he received a message on his phone from an unknown number, but he knew perfectly who send it.

“Blue suits you, you should wear it more often.”

Stiles really hated Peter Hale, even more when he felt his cheeks burn and his stomach clench in response to the tornado of emotions that those words had caused.

  
  
  


Stiles and Lydia had way more things in common than many realized: they were both intelligent, sly, able to think outside the box, ruthless and ready to burn the world for their loved ones. They were also insecure about themselves, balls of anxiety ready to explode, but Lydia, despite being a creature who could perceive the coming of death at any moment, hid it better. 

Stiles was able to pretend to be a relatively normal boy until the Nogitsune invaded his mind, and woke desires and thoughts that the teenager probably was very aware about, but always refused to acknowledge as part of himself. 

Peter could relate, before the fire that destroyed his life he was like that

 

_ How does it feels to know that a simple flick of your clawed finger could decide the life or the death of someone?  _

 

_ What kind of power is holding someone’s life in your hands? _

 

_ Is it inebriating? Is it terrifying? Is it horrible? _

 

All thoughts that recurred in his mind frequently in his youth, but that remained a simple, although morbid, curiosity.

When he slashed Laura’s throat, he knew the answer, and the killing spree that came after only confirmed it. 

Killing was a sublime, terrific experience; revenge was the sweetest and the most bitter dish ever served, but left nothing except a deep hole in the soul.

Coming back from the dead left him with an even  bigger hole, and there was nothing in the world that could fill it. 

Derek would never trust him again, bonding with Malia was practically an impossible mission, and no one in the pack wanted to have nothing to do with him. Especially Scott, poor little True Alpha that would be responsible for someone's death again before he understood that killing was inevitable in their world, and that he couldn't save everyone - the blood of the Argent’s child on his naive and inexperienced hands probably wasn't enough to make him understand that hard truth.

Only Lydia and Stiles could understand, could become the left hand that the pack so desperately needed; but the banshee was a good person at heart, she couldn't bend her moral view like Stiles could. Stiles was neither good or bad, these were meaningless concepts when the life of the pack was at risk: everything that could help the pack to remain safe was good, everything else was bad and had to be eliminated before it could represent a risk.

If only his father’s diligent moral code wasn't present in his head; if only Scott’s moral expectations weren't so impending, refraining Stiles from becoming the true left hand the Alpha needed, maybe he wouldn't have to resort to extreme methods.

But what was done couldn't be changed anymore, and when the door of Eichen House closed behind him all he could think about war Stiles’ expression the last time their eyes met. There was rage in his look, pure unaltered anger, and sadness and disappointment, but there was also a little spark of sympathy.  _ I know why you did this, _ his eyes seemed to say,  _ I know why you thought this was the best option.  _

Peter understood in that moment, in that last gaze, that he would have never again met someone that could understand him so completely, even if he and Stiles didn't have the same opinion on many things. Stiles could have completed him. 

_ In another life,  _ he hoped in the few moments of clarity, when he wasn’t drugged by heavy doses of mistletoe,  _ in another life, things would have gone differently. _

  
  
  



	2. Pietro's war

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ninetta mia, crepare di maggio/Dear Ninetta, dying in May  
> ci vuole tanto, troppo coraggio/It takes much, so much courage  
> Ninetta bella dritto all'inferno/Dear Ninetta straight to Hell  
> Avrei preferito andarci in inverno/I would rather go in winter

Stiles didn't hate Peter per se, even though he threaten his friends on multiple occasions, and for what he forced Lydia to do. He could actually understand him on some levels: there wasn't a word to describe what he felt when his mother died, he could barely imagine what it was like to lose your entire family in a fire, watching them burn while you couldn't do anything to save them, and pass the next six years in a coma, trapped in your own body, slowly healing every bit of your skin and organs without the last two living members of your family to support you.

To a degree, he also understood why Peter felt necessary to ally himself with Kate Argent: he lost his family because his alpha sister refused to take precautions against Gerard, and he saw history repeat itself with Scott - who, despite having always the best of intentions, was doomed to repeat the same mistakes over and over again.

 

It made a terrible, twisted sense; as twisted and terrible as Peter was after all.

 

Stiles didn’t believe that Peter was evil at heart: just a desperate man doing what he could to survive along with the people he cared about.

 

It scared him how similar they were in that, actually, to know that in the same situation he would have done exactly the same things the werewolf did. And it was sad and scary at what choices desperations could lead.

 

In another life, maybe, things would have gone differently. In another life, Peter would have been the stereotypical, snarky and perpetually single uncle, his sharp tongue always ready to hit at family dinners with the most annoying relatives, telling his sister to be less stern with her children while passing some money under the table to his favourite nieces and nephew. In another life, Peter would have been on the same level as his sister, not her left hand, ready to do the dirty work under her judgmental stare

.

In another life, all of them would have been happier, probably.

 

“I hate you.” Stiles murmured, more to himself than to the limp body in his arm, “I hate you so much.”

 

When the Ghostriders had taken him, he was surprised to see that Peter was among their prisoners too; he was even more surprised when all the memories that were taken from him returned suddenly, and he remembered that it wasn’t just a random Alpha werewolf that bit Scott, but Peter. It all started because of Peter.

 

And with the memories came back all the feelings towards him, and he wanted to scream when he was invested by rage, disappointment, sympathy, confusion. Attraction.

 

They survived as long as they could, hiding and trying to leave traces of their existence so the others could help them. How much time passed, he couldn’t tell; sometimes, it looked like an eternity.

 

But their efforts were rewarded, because Lydia screamed his name - his true name - and the barrier between their reality and the ones of the Ghostriders shattered, and it should have ended there; but then a battle started, and Peter dragged him away from the pack to hide him behind a building - “You can’t stay there, you would be a burden for them now!” and he knew that it was true, but it still hurt - and a Ghostrider found them, and Peter wasn’t able to kill him before being shot in the chest.

 

Stiles prayed with all his being that it was finally over, and that the pack was able to win once again, possibly without any other loss, and they were just taking their breath before they started to look for him.

 

“I hate you so much.” he murmured again, not suppressing a sob, “after all you did, you had to decide now to play hero!? You damn bastard!

 

“Now now, isn’t this an unfair thing to say to the man that saved your life?” Peter answered with a feeble voice, his breath irregular - the bullet probably hit a lung.

 

“Shut up, shut up you damn sociopath, you goddamn idiot! Shut up for once! Why did you save me?! You are a fucking narcissist asshole all the time, and now you go around saving lives?!” Stiles said, exasperated, while rain started to fall on them.

 

“Stiles, I already told you once, rub it in it’s useless with me.” Peter’s laugh was interrupted by a series of coughs; a black substance came out from his mouth.

 

“I don’t understand. I just don’t understand.” Stiles repeated, internally glad that the rain masked his tears. He couldn’t do this anymore, really.

 

“What do you have to understand?”

 

Stiles didn’t answer, only sobbed more, tightening his arms around the werewolf’s body. This was so unfair, all of this was so unfair: how could a simple walk in the woods at night have set off so much pain and chaos?

 

He started to rock his body, deaf and blind to the outside world as the panic attack started, murmuring incoherent words against Peter’s lips, his mind a whirling of thoughts, _why did it happen? Why me? It’s all my fault._

  


 

 

 

 

When Peter woke up and saw white, he understood that he wasn’t dead. When his vision cleared, he realized he was in an hospital, and that he could feel someone's breath on his arm. He moved his head slowly, and found Stiles asleep, sat on a chair next to his bed, his head resting on the white sheets, his face relaxed; a green jacket, a little too tight to be his property, had been placed on his shoulders.

 

“He remained here all week,” he heard a female voice saying, and on his left there was Lydia Martin, elegant and poised as ever, currently looking at him with an unreadable expression, a closed book between her hands.

 

“Where am I?” his voice was rasped, like if his vocal cords weren’t used to work anymore. It must have been asleep a for a long while.

 

“At the Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. You have been here for a whole month now,” Lydia answered, “your doctor is Deaton’s acquaintance, he knows about werewolves, so don’t worry about that.”

 

His head is still too foggy for him to actually think something more than ‘I am in an hospital and Stiles had been by my side for a week.’, but he still tried to process all the new informations.

 

“After the battle with the Ghostriders you got hurt pretty badly, and you had to be hospitalized because you weren’t healing as fast as you normally would because of some magic in the bullets. But the doctor said that once you wake up you would have start to heal at normal pace again. Well, if you ever wake up,” Lydia explained; she got up and got closer to Stiles, her eyes softening as she looked at him, “Stiles stayed here for most of the time.”

 

Peter turned towards the boy, and listened to his slow and regular heartbeat. It was a really relaxing sound.

 

“I don’t know what happened between the two of you in the other dimension,” Lydia said, interrupting his thoughts, “or what happened in that alley, and I don’t care much. But it must have been… Important, if Stiles decided to stay by your side this long. We had to force him to get home to have a shower every few days.”

 

Peter didn’t know what to say. He noticed that Stiles’ heartbeat started to accelerate: he was waking up.

 

“Peter,” Lydia called him, and a shiver run his spine when he saw her green eyes look at him, deadly serious, “I don’t care what is this thing between the two of you, how you called it and how much you cared about it. Make Stiles suffer, and you will die burning, this time for good. I will make sure that you will never have the chance to come back again.”

 

With that said, she turned away and exit the room, leaving him and Stiles alone. The latter slowly sat up, and rubbed his eyes to dissipate the sleepiness before locking his gaze with his own. Peter wondered if he listened to Lydia’s threat.

 

“Good morning sweetheart,” he murmured, laughing weakly when Stiles blushed, probably ashamed to have been found asleep so close to him.

 

“It’s evening actually,” the boy replied before stretching out, the sound of his bones snapping caused Peter so shiver unpleasantly, “you woke up.”

 

“Hoped for the contrary?” he teased, but his smirked died only his lips when he saw how tired and worn out Stiles was.

 

The other sighed heavily, but before he could answer someone burst into the room. Peter was shocked when he saw Derek and Cora on the doorway, both older in their appearance and with deep bags under their eyes, looking at him like they wanted to hug him and strangle him at the same time.

 

“I… I think I will leave you alone. We can talk later.” Stiles said as he stood up and exit the room without looking at him.

  
Cora and Derek let him passed without saying a word before closing the door behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, in Italy is 10:30pm at the moment, so here's second chapter. I swear angst ends here, I swear, the next will be fluffly as a cloud.  
> Hope you have enjoyed this chapter too.  
> See you tomorrow!


	3. Lost in the summer wind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Venuto dal sole o da spiagge gelate/Came from the son of from freezing shores  
> Perduto in novembre o col vento d'estate/Lost in November or with the summer wind  
> Io t' ho amato sempre , non t' ho amato mai/I always loved you, I never loved you  
> Amore che vieni , amore che vai/Love that comes, love that goes away

It was a sunny and hot day of summer, and for a really diverse pack of teenagers, that meant beach. 

On 5 am, Peter was unceremoniously thrown off the bed by a really grumpy nephew and a not so grumpy niece, forced to wear a pair of swimming trunks under a pair of gym pants and a white shirt, got in Derek’s car on the back seat with a big bag full of food, watched with sleepy eyes as they passed in front of Malia’s house to collect her, and went to a beach not far from Beacon Hills with Stiles’ blue jeep and another black car he didn’t recognized behind them. By 7am they arrived at their destination, and Peter was still not very awake when he get out of the car, and cursed loudly when he was dazzled by the sun. 

“C’mon Peter, move!” he heard Derek say, and when his sight didn’t consist of many little white dots anymore, he could finally admire the crystal waters of the ocean, the golden color of the sand, and the colorful beach umbrellas of the few people crazier than a group of supernatural teenager that had come before them. 

Along with the Sheriff, Derek and Chris, he placed the five umbrellas, the two wood tables and the twenty - twenty! - plastic chair needed for lunch that day, while Melissa ad Natalie took care of the food, and the teenagers already got free of their clothes and throw themselves in the water in the blink of an eye. Peter was  _ almost _ jealous of their youthful energy. 

When they had done, Peter sprawled himself on towel, but his attempt to close his eyes and try to regain some sleep failed miserably when he heard the Sheriff scream: “Stiles get here and put some solar cream! Now!” 

For Pete’s sake.

Peter turned on his side, trying to ignore all the noises around him and concentrating only on the definitely more relaxing sound of the waves crushing on the shore. But it was useless, because Melissa and Natalie apparently remembered only in that moment that their children needed solar cream too, and started to call for Scott and Lydia - and all the other members of the pack, because they weren’t screaming enough it seemed - to come back for the same reason as the Sheriff’s son. 

“Peter,” he heard Stiles calling him but didn’t open his eyes, hoping that the other would have left him alone after realizing that he was being ignored; that decision cost him a jet of sand directly on his face.

“Oh for fuck- What the hell-” he coughed while shaking off from his face all the sand grains; at his side, Stiles was looking at him, unimpressed.

“What the hell do you want?” he asked, deeply annoyed, before a tube of solar cream was shoved on his face.

“Put it on my back.” Stiles said, and turned the other side.

“Why don’t you ask someone else?” he asked, but received no answer. Peter cursed in his mind, opened the tube and started to apply the cream on the boy’s back, noticing that the UV protection was a little too low for Stiles’ really light skin, and a better person would have went to get a more suitable cream to avoid sunburns. Oh well. 

His intention was to apply the cream as unevenly as he could, just so he could enjoy the reddish stripes that would have appeared later that day on the other’s back along with his laments of pain, but he lost himself in looking all the moles Stiles had on that portion of skin as his hand passed on them over and over again. 

Most of the moles - some big, some small as little dots - were on his left shoulder, and became more dispersed as they got closer to the end of his back, like a little galaxy where the stars became fewer the further they were from the center. It was kind of cute actually. 

“Have you done?” Stiles’ voice made him come back to reality, and he noticed only in that moment that not only the boy was looking at him with an intense blush on his confused face - a light, sweet scent of arousal coming from his warm skin - but that Derek and the Sheriff were looking at him like they just saw a crime punishable by capital sentence happening in front of them.

Peter removed his hand from Stiles’ body like he just burned himself, and quickly waved at him to go away. Stiles’ exhaled, obviously frustrated by something, but got up and run towards the others, where he started to tease Mason and Corey for the show they inadvertently put up. 

Fortunately, neither the Sheriff or Derek came to him to talk about how he stared at a minor’s back for a good five minutes.

 

After an entire morning passed between being almost hit numerous time by various balls by ‘accident’ and playing One with Chris and the Sheriff - and letting them win,  _ of course! _ \- and after one of the fullest lunches of his life, Peter was once again on his beloved towel, ready to sleep at least an hour to regain some energy. 

When he opened his eyes again, he noticed that most of pack was asleep under the umbrellas, with the exceptions of Derek - who was doing crosswords - Chris and Melissa - who were talking and laughing as softly as they could, a bit far from the group, mh… - Mason and Corey - teenagers and their attitude for exibitionism that they though could hide by simply moving on the shore - while Scott and Kira were nowhere to be found - probably walking on the shore emitting love and fluffiness from every of their pores. 

Peter turned on his side, and was surprised to see Stiles next to him, lying on his stomach between Peter’s towel and Lydia’s one. Thinking about it, when did they lie next to him? Did it happen when he was sleeping?

He noticed that Stiles skin has started to redden in some points, where the solar cream had been applied unevenly, and that his heartbeat wasn't as slow as Lydia’s, meaning that he was probably in a state of drowsiness, if not completely awake.

Peter absentmindedly placed a hand on the other’s left leg, and didn’t miss the acceleration of his heartbeat; the muscle was surprisingly toned - when did Stiles grew up so much anyway? Didn’t he noticed before because he was always wearing baggy clothes? - the skin soft and covered by sparse, light hair on the thighs. Slowly, he moved his hand up and down, enjoying the consistency of the flesh in his hand and the increasing smell of arousal coming from the boy’s body, like when he applied the solar cream on his back. Interesting.

“What are you doing?” he heard whispering, and when he looked up he saw Stiles looking at him, his nose and cheeks completely covered by a lovely red blush and his breath had slightly quicken.

“Wondering why you lied beside me when I was sleeping,” he replied with a lower tone, amused by how the blush on Stiles’ face became even more intense.

“Why shouldn’t I have?” he murmured, and stilled completely when Peter’s hand stopped where his swimming shorts ended, not far from his butt.

Peter didn’t answered, and started to slowly insert his fingers under the hems of the shorts; the red on his face spread to his neck, but Stiles didn’t lower his gaze, almost as if he was challenging him to proceed. Well then, two could play that game.

He was on the verge to pinch Stiles’ ass - enough to leave a brillant red mark and enough pain to last a few days - but stopped when he started to feel observed, and really,  _ really _ cold shiver run along his spine. He slowly turned to look behind him, and found Derek looking at him like he was ready to use his guts to redecorate the beach, and Scott, who returned just in time to see what he probably considered sexual harassment towards his best friend. 

Exactly ten seconds passed -  _ ten really intense second - _ before Peter got up and started to run the exact moment Derek stood up from his chair throwing the crosswords behind himself and Scott quickly excused himself from a confused Kira before running after him. 

The last thing Peter heard before concentrating entirely in not being catch up by his nephew and the True Alpha - the latter telling him to stop while the first yelled him to run while he could - was the sound of Stiles’ laughter. That little shit.

  
  


 

 

 

They never talked about that kiss, if it could even be considered a kiss. They never talked about the fact that he was willing to practically live in an hospital for an entire month just to be next to him when Peter would have wake up, for the matter. Stiles had a really confused memory of that night in the alley, when the Ghostriders had been defeated - too much had happened in so little time. 

Lydia told him that he was an idiot, both because he fell in love with Peter Hale - “Seriously Stiles, if it had to be a Hale, couldn’t it be Derek?”, “Oh for God’s sake, Lydia!”, “Of the four living Hales, you had to fall for the sociopathic one that would be sent to prison for statutory rape.”, “ _ Lydia! _ ” - and because, after four months from that day, they still haven’t discussed about what happened and about what it could mean.. 

In all honesty, Stiles didn’t want to talk about it. In a way, it was better living in the possibility that Peter wouldn’t have laughed at him in the face after hearing: “I actually like that kiss a lot and I may want more of them possibly in the nearest future,” than facing the truth. 

He could live with that, really,  _ if only Peter would have stopped teasing him! _

Seriously, why did he had to say all those really ambiguous things? What was the business with all those double entendre? And most importantly, why did he had to make him always angry, somehow? Really, sometimes the fascination he had for Peter completely dissipated when they started to beaker with each other; only to return stronger than before as soon as he catched the werewolf staring at him, or got a really good view of those indecent v-neck T-shirts.

And that episode of last week, when Peter wouldn’t stop caressing his thigh but never went higher, as if waiting for permission. What did that mean? Why did it have to be so confusing?

_ How did his life ended up being like that anyway?! _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said that this would have been a happier chapter but it seems that angst is always present somehow. Oops.  
> But last chapter wil be fluff, i swear. In the mean time, I hope you enjoyed the new chapter.  
> See you tomorrow!


	4. The season of your love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Passa il tempo sopra il tempo,/Time passes over time,  
> ma non devi aver paura,/but you don't have to be afraid,  
> sembra correre come il vento,/it seems to run like the wind,  
> però il tempo non ha premura./but time doesn't care.  
> Piangi e ridi come allora,/Cry and laughed like that time,  
> ridi e piangi e ridi ancora,/laugh and cry and laugh again,  
> ogni gioia, ogni dolore,/every joy, every pain,  
> puoi ritrovarli nella luce di un'ora./you can't find them in the light of an hour.

The day before going away for college, Stiles decided to take a walk in the Preserve. He turned off his cellphone, parked his car not far from the main road, and simply walked - after many nights spent in the forest near Beacon Hills, he knew every portion of it like the palm of his hand.

Part of him wanted nothing more than go away from that place, and possibly start over with only the lingering memory of his teen years to remind him of what he lived, but he knew that after college he would have inevitably came back. Maybe, after graduation, he could enter in the army before going back to his hometown and become a police officer, just to live a few more years in the illusion that he could go away and come back as he liked.

When he arrived in a little clearing, he lied on the grass, among different types of flowers, enjoying the combinations of their smells; he closed his eyes, breathing as evenly as he could, listening to only the sound of the wind moving the leaves and branches of the trees around him, the rays of the sun warming him pleasantly.

He wasn’t ready to leave; he wanted to, but he knew that he would have left behind some many outstanding issues. Like how he was never able to connect with Scott again, like in the old times. Or all the problems regarding his grandfather and how they influenced the relationship with his father. Or if the bonds with his friends were strong enough to endure five years of distance. Or if there was actually something between him and Peter.

He was used to ignore problems, waiting for them to disappear on their own. This time, he couldn’t ignore them. How could he?

“Aren't you dressed a little too lightly for the end of summer?” he heard Peter’s voice saying, and really hoped that it was just his imagination playing a cruel trick on him. He really did.

“Is that your assholish way to tell me to stay warm to not catch a cold?” he asked, not opening his eyes just yet. The sound of the grass being crushed under the weight of someone was a bit unpleasant.

“That would presume that I actually cared enough.” Peter replied.

So much for a solitary evening.

Stiles slowly opened his eyes, got briefly blinded by the light of the sun before his sight cleared again, and turned to his right. Peter was dressed in jeans and a black jacket, and was looking at him with amusement.

“I hate you.” Stiles said, with the tone of someone commenting the weather.

“That you do.”

“I wish you stayed dead.”

“Many wish the same.”

“When the Ghostrider shoot you, you should have died.”

“I don’t know, isn’t dying in May a little too sad?”

“What do you mean?”

“I’d rather go back to Hell in winter.”

“You can’t go back to Hell, you saved me. Us.”

“I killed many.”

“Many that deserved.”

“They did. Still, it’s Hell that is waiting for me.”

“For us.”

Peter laughed, and picked up a daisy from the array of flowers surrounding them.

“I don’t think God punishes the possessed teenager Stiles,” he said as he lied next to him, resting his head on his right hand.

“I killed when I wasn’t possessed too.”

“It was self defense, wasn’t it?”

“Some wouldn’t think that.”

“Some did not experienced such situations.”

Stiles blinked sleepily, looking at Peter’s fingers twirling the little flowers back and forth.

“Why did you follow me?”

“I didn’t follow you, I was walking around here.”

“Why?”

 “I needed to think.”

 “About what?”

 “About why a minor stayed near my death bed for a whole month and if it’s worth it to wait for him until he finishes college.”

 Stiles’s heartbeat quickened, but on the outside he remained as still as possible.

 “I don’t believe you.”

“Well, you will never know the truth. You could have, if you accepted the bite two years ago.”

“You hoped that it would have killed me, don’t you?” 

“Now Stiles, that is unfair. I was blinded by rage, but I still could recognize good potential.” 

“I didn’t want to become like you. I still don’t want to.”

“No Stiles, you don’t want to become the idea _Scott_ has of me. You are already like me.”

Stiles didn’t replied. Before Peter, his life was normal. Before Peter, he and Scott were brothers, always on each other's back. Now? Hard to say. Scott never really apologized for being so ready to believe Theo over him.

“It’s a good thing you aren’t as close as before. You were too dependent on him, and dear Scott isn’t able to give you the affection you need.”

“And you can?” he asked as anger and sadness started to fill him. Peter accosted the daisy to his own nose, letting the petals touch lightly his lips.

“Would you let me?”

“You are almost older as my father.” 

“I don’t think this is the real problem for you.”

“I don’t think many would approve.”

“Your father would learn to accept it because he loves you. Same as for Scott, if he actually cares. This could be a good way to prove his loyalty, actually. And I have the feeling Miss Martin doesn’t really oppose, does she?”

“Why me and not her? Why did you gave me a choice but not to her?”

Peter didn’t answer - maybe there wasn’t a way to answer to your actions when you were mad with grief, rage and solitude - and got closer until he was partially above him.

“I like you Stiles,” he murmured, his hoarse voice making him shiver.

Silence fell between them, all Stiles could hear was the wind, the grass rustling, and his heart beating like crazy. When Peter started to get closer he closed his eyes, and resisted the urge to part his lips until he felt the other’s warm breath on his skin.

When he felt a light tickle on his mouth and an intense flowery smell, though, he opened his eyes again, and looked at the daisy caressing his lips as  if it was the Nogitsune itself. Above him, Peter laughed and, without saying a word, stood up and went away. Stiles didn't know if he heard all the insult and cursed he throwed at him, but screaming them did made him feel a little better.

  
  
  


 

The day after, Peter was reading a consumed edition of ‘The betrothed’, ignoring the malevolent stares Derek was sending him from the kitchen of the loft or Cora’s inquisitive glances; in his free hand he had the daisy that he picked up the day before, and sometime he moved the still soft petal on his lips, enjoying the light tickle.

That day, Stiles was moving away with Lydia in one of the best colleges of the West Coast. All of their friends went to say goodbye to them that morning, Derek and Cora went too. Peter didn’t: he doubt Lydia would have been pleased to see him, and he already told his _personal_ goodbye to Stiles yesterday.

Getting away was what they both needed, Stiles more than Lydia probably; college life would have do them good, he was sure of that. He knew they would come back, no one could really go away from Beacon Hills, no matter how much they wanted to - he foolishly thought, in his youth, that he could run away from that damn town and never turned back too. How wrong he was.

 He was curious to see what type of person the two of them would have become. He could easily imagine Lydia growing into a beautiful, confident woman, ready to bend the world to her wishes. Stiles was harder: he mentioned, once, that he wanted to enter in the police, but he had a hard time imagine awkward, practically defenceless Stiles becoming a cop. He saw him as a teacher, a writer maybe, or doing one of those work someone could do from home.

Peter looked down at the daisy, twirling it between his fingers. Stiles’ smell was feeble, but present, but he didn’t thought that it would have resist from much time. Maybe, he should have asked for something like a T-shirt to borrow before playing with him

The time Stiles was going to spend away from Beacon Hills was surely going to be really tedious and frustrating, but necessary. The boy had to go away for his own good, otherwise Beacon Hills would have suffocating him, preventing him from becoming the mind the pack needed him to be. And if he took advantage of the feelings he had for him to give him an ulterior push, he couldn't be blame. If he and Stiles were meant to be, that should happen once Stiles was less tormented by his past, and that could only happened once he was outside that damn town.

But that wasn’t a problem, Peter would have wait for him, they had plenty of time to elaborate their traumas and go on with their lives, possibly together.  

  
  
  


 

Or, that would have been the plan if it wasn’t for the fact that Stiles himself suddenly bursted into the loft, screaming “Peter Hale, I hate you so fucking much!” as he ignored Derek’s “What the hell are you doing here Stiles? Stiles?!” and grabbed him by the collar and smashed their lips together.

“I hate you so much,” Stiles hissed between kissed, “how the fuck did I end up liking you?! Goddamn it, I should hate you more than I already do! Fuck! If you don’t wait for me, I’ll set you on fire! In May! Just to spite you! Fuck you!”

Peter remained still just because he was completely taken by surprise; when Stiles moved away and he was able to see his expression - a mix of anger, exasperation and embarrassment - he knew the boy wasn’t joking.

Stiles went away as abruptly as he came, maybe remembering only at last to wave goodbye to Derek - who was looking at both of them, his face pale - and Cora - who was laughing so much she actually had to sit on the floor.

It took him awhile to process what just happened; when he did, Peter slowly stood up, and touched his own lips, a bit sorry that any bruising had already healed; then he recovered the book, and placed the daisy between the pages. There was no way he could keep reading now.

“Peter.”

Derek’s voice was cold as ice, and for the second time in a few month Peter’s first instinct was to run away from the near danger. Instead, he turned towards his nephew: colour had returned on his face, and he calmly removed the apron, letting it fell down on the floor. Then he gave him a smile that was friendly only on the appearance.

“Run.”

From her position on the floor, Cora’s laugh only became lauder.


	5. Wedding march

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cerimonia originale, strano tipo di festa,/An original cerimony, a strange type of party,  
> la folla ci guardava gli occhi fuori dalla testa/people were staring at us mindblowed  
> eravamo osservati dalla gente civile /we were look at by the common people,  
> che mai aveva visto matrimoni in quello stile./who never saw that kind of marriage.

Since he was in third grade, Stiles thought he would have married Lydia Martin, and passed a big amount of time thinking about their wedding: inspired by the photos he saw of his parents the day they got married, Stiles imagined himself wearing a black, elegant tuxedo with a white shirt under it, a brilliant red tie that would have probably being knotted by his mother as she commented with pretended exasperation that “So old and you still can’t put it on properly.”; he would have entered in the church way too soon, but that would have been ok because Scott, his best-man, and his father would have been there, and he would have passed the time talking with them remembering their high-school lives; then, the wedding music would have started to play, and Lydia would have come down the hall, wearing a dress as white as snow, and before a priest they would have promise each other eternal love.

 

Things had gone way more differently than what his eight years old self could even imagine.

  
  
  


Stiles looked at himself one last time in the mirror of the room before turning towards Lydia and opening his arms: “Well?”

Lydia sighed, her exasperated face not hiding well her fondness, and signed him to come closer: “Who taught you how to knot a tie?” she asked as she folded the black tie to make it decent. 

“You are not answering me.” 

“Hold still.” she said instead when Stiles started to bounce slightly on his heels.

“I can’t, I’m starting to get nervous.”

“Starting?”

“Starting to become even more nervous.” 

Once Lydia finished, Stiles looked at himself on the mirror once again, trying to look for any imperfection: the black tuxedo Lydia chose for him fit him well, like the navy blue shirt he wear under it, and he finally started to look like someone that was going to get married after the banshee fixed his tie; his hair had been arranged with gel in a neat hairstyle, and fortunately no pimple or blackhead popped up overnight. 

Behind him, Lydia looked stunning in her blue dress, her hair collected in an elegant chignon, her face was covered by a sober makeup.

“I’m not ready,” Stiles said, starting to walk around the room, “I’m not ready and this isn’t going to work, right?”

“Stiles, you had you ‘Holy fuck I’m actually going to get married’ meltdown yesterday night. It took the whole night for me and Scott to calm you down, you won’t start again.”

“But Lydia, you don’t understand! How in the world is it going to work? He’s so much older than me!”

“Of all the problems regarding the fact that you are marrying Peter Hale is the fact that he’s older than you?”

“No, yes, I don’t know! How in the world did I end up falling for him?!” 

“Yeah, that’s something that the majority of the people present today is asking to themselves too,” Lydia replied, and when Stiles only sighed, frustrated, she started to massage his shoulders to try to relax him a bit, “it’s okay Stiles, really. If you don’t go down the hallway, many will actually think that you came to your sense.”

Stiles didn’t replied. He knew that many didn’t understand or accept the choices in his love life. Hell, he didn’t understand them either. 

And yet, he knew that despite his anxiety, nothing would have stopped him from entering the hall of the very expensive hotel Peter had rented for two days and swear to devote his life to him. Not his father, not Scott, not anyone could make him change his mind,

“I’m getting married to a psychopathic werewolf that has already died once, almost died twice, is more than twice my age, is the father of my ex-girlfriend, and never felt remorse for the people he killed.”

Except Laura. Maybe. Not that an Alpha that abandoned her own beta and uncle deserved much compassion. 

“Yes, you are Stiles Stilinski.”

“I should really reconsider my life choices.”

“Who doesn’t?”

“I’m only twenty-six, I’m still in time, right?”

“I don’t know, you graduated earlier just to get married as soon as possible.”

“Lydia, I’m so fucked.”

“I realized that when you forced me to go back to Beacon Hills just so you could kiss Peter before going to college.”

“Yeah, that too.”

“Could make you feel better the fact that I’m currently engaged to an hellhound?”

“Parrish isn’t a mass murder.”

“Yeah, but it’s one of Hell’s keepers, and I’m a banshee.”

“So?”

“Have you ever thought about my future children?”

Stiles shivered, his head full of beautiful little humans screaming their lungs out or suddenly catching fire: “A bit, actually,”

“There you go, now let’s get down before they start to think that you run away.”

  
  
  
  


“I’m starting to think Stiles run away.” Liam said before receiving a nudge by an outraged Mason.

But most of the people attending the wedding surely heard him, and most of them probably hoped that Stiles actually did it.

Peter rolled his eyes, and looked once again at the clock on the wall behind a very impatient major of Beacon Hills.

“Liam’s kidding.” Derek murmured, standing on his side in his black tuxedo and red shirt - to match Peter’s own, because Lydia decided that it would have been cute to have the best men’s shirts and dresses to match the ones of the spouses - and looking quite amused. 

“I know, no need to tell me that dear nephew.” he replied, and once again look at the clock. Stiles was late of fifthteen minutes.

“Oh, I know, it’s just that you look a bit nervous and I thought you might need a reminder.” Derek said with a smug expression on his face. 

“Like what? Like when you run after me for the  _ seventh  _ time since me and Stiles started to date when I asked him to marry me, just to  _ remind  _ me to treat him nicely?”

“That too.”

“Your propensity to use me as some sort of punching bag is worrisome.”

“Your propensity to torment minors is worrisome.”

“I’d liked to remind you that Stiles agreed  _ on his own  _ to marry me.”

“Did you ever ask yourself how and why that happen?”

“I know that it strange for you to think that someone may find your uncle likeable Derek. It’s a shock, I know.”

“I doubt Stiles finds you likeable.”

“You might be surprised.” Peter said, smirking in a way that made Derek lost his smugness in favour of disgust.

“Stop tormenting him Derek,” Cora approached them walking with difficulty in her red, tight dress and black high-heels, “don’t worry Peter, he will come.”

“Of course he will.” he said, wondering why his nephew and niece were so convinced he was nervous. Why should he be? Sure, Stiles was only twenty-six, he still wanted to enter in the police force and travel some more, but he mustn’t have feel that marriage was an impediment to those wishes, otherwise he wouldn’t have accepted.  It was Stiles that said yes when he asked him to marry him during a trip across Europe with the pack, and that helped Lydia preparing the ceremony and the party. He did these things because he wanted to, not because he felt forced, or pressured, and surely not because he was too emotionally dependent on other people to actually tell him “No”.

“Maybe someone should go to check on them.” Cora said absentmindedly before she proceed towards the entrance of the hall, and Peter remember in that moment that Lydia was with Stiles, to help him preparing himself.

“Maybe they elope.” Derek said, and Peter had the sudden desire to shove something in his nephew throat to make him shut up once for all. 

What silly things to say. What was Derek trying to do anyway? Making him nervous? As if he could succeed in such a childish plan. So what if Lydia was with Stiles? He stopped loving her from a long time ago, now he loved him; he knew that, because between all the “I hate you!” there were also many “I love you.”, usually accompanied by some kind of insult, but he knew that their meaning was genuine. He knew it.

“Stop being nervous, Stiles is coming, he’s really not the type to leave people on the altar. At best, he will come here, tell you to go fuck yourself, and run away with a saner person.”

“Geez Derek, your kind words are touching. And why do you think I am nervous exactly?”

“You reek nervousness from every pore. Is actually a bit disgusting.”

“You should let someone see you olfact system, nephew. I’m perfectly calm.”

Derek looked at him, obviously not believing him. 

“Stiles will come.” he repeated, and this time his voice lacked sarcasm, as if he was really trying to reassure him. Not that that was necessary: Peter was calm, he knew better than his nephew that Stiles was coming. 

And yet, when Cora came back followed by Lydia and Scott, both of them taking their place as best-men as his niece went behind him, and Stiles entered the hall with his father by his side, more astonishingly handsome than usual, Peter felt a huge weight being lifted from his heart.

  
  


The ceremony was quick, a mere formality before the starting of the wedding party.

There was alcohol, a lot of alcohol, because the Sheriff had to metabolized the fact that he just let his son marry a plural homicidal werewolf and old enough to be his father, most of the guests wanted to not think about the many moral codes given by society that were broken with that marriage, and Scott, Derek, Lydia and Cora weren't even remotely drunk enough to bear the two new spouses being all lovely dopey with each other - which  meant a lot of snarkiness, insults, obscene kisses, and too many jokes with sexual innuendos. 

But, despite everything that happened since Scott was bitten in a cold night of January, everybody knew that what would have come would have been at least okey. 

 

After all, no one sane enough would have come to face a pack where two of its most deadly members were a stable couple. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's funny because I accidentally wrote another chapter xD. I thought that there would have been 5 chapter, but there are 6 instead - the different time zones confused me, sorry xD.  
> Anyway, now that Peter and Stiles are happily (?) married, what else could they miss... :3  
> See you tomorrow guys, happy Christmas Eve to all of you sweethearts that read this fic.


	6. The old city

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Se tu penserai, se giudicherai /If you think, if you judge,  
> da buon borghese/Like a good burgeois  
> li condannerai a cinquemila anni più le spese /you will condamn the to five-thousand years of prison and add the expenses  
> ma se capirai, se li cercherai fino in fondo/but if you understand, if you look for them until the end  
> se non sono gigli son pur sempre figli/if not flowers, they are children no less  
> vittime di questo mondo./victims of this world.

There was a hole in Peter’s soul, a hole that could never been fill up, closed and preserved as a reminder of what happened as he went on with his life.

It opened when his pack, his family, burned alive, it became bigger and bigger as years passed and he was trapped in his body without the comfort of the his remaining relatives, as he became mad with grief and rage; death took away any chance to go back to be his old, complete self.

That was the catch, after all: he knew that the price to pay for resurrecting himself was to lose any chance to be whole again.

And yet, he couldn’t not think that it was a bit unfair: no one of the things he did before the fire had been that _bad_ to make him deserve losing his pack, dying and coming back, been closed in Eichen House by the werewolf he bit himself - his first beta - and being forgotten for a period of time.

Poor Paige was an accident, no matter what Derek thought. He may not have been the best little brother, too cunning and too reluctant to bend before his alpha, but he loved Talia, she was his sister, and he knew that despite how strained their relationship was, she loved him too.

If he knew _what_ he was missing, maybe he would have been able to bear the situation a little better, but he was never able to put a name on it. An outsider would have told him that he had nothing to lament: he was rich - even when he split what remained of the Hale properties with Cora and Derek he had a considerable fortune - the pack finally learned to tolerate his presence, he was married to the sheriff of Beacon Hills and ex-soldier Stiles Stilinski, and he had two children, two adorable trouble-makers he would have give his life for.

But his life wasn't complete because he wasn’t complete, and he wouldn’t have never been complete. And it frustrated him to no end, because he always felt like he couldn’t do his best to provide for his family, something that he thought he could never have again, and-

“You are thinking too much, your thinking doesn’t make me sleep, so stop thinking.”

Peter sighed, amused no less, and looked at his husband.

“Sorry to tell you, but humans, were or not, never stop thinking.”

It was 2 am, and they had been sleeping until Andrew bursted into their room crying because he dreamed about a witch that wanted to take him away. Currently, Stiles was lying supine with Andrew on his stomach, humming a lullaby even though their son was already asleep, while Peter was on his side, his head resting on one hand while the other caressed the child’s back.

“Then stop thinking loudly.”

“I wonder what kind of sound my thoughts emit for you to hear them.”

“An annoying sound.”

“You’re going to wake him up.”

“ _You_ are going to wake him up with your thoughts.”

“Stop talking about my thoughts.”

“Then stop thinking and sleep.”

Peter laughed, but kept massaging his son’s back as Stiles’ breath became more even and he fell asleep. He wondered how he would have felt right now, if death didn’t take part of his soul. Were these emotions he had real, or were they a mere copy of what his old self would have felt?

“Papa?” he turned towards the door, and found Daisy looking at him with big, green, sleepy eyes, her teddy-bear close to her chest, “Did the witch visit Andrew again?”

Peter nodded, and made space for Daisy to climb on the bed and place herself between her parents.

“I won’t let the witch hurt him, papa. I promise I’ll protect him,” she swore, and gave a kiss on her brother’s head before turning on her side, “can you teach me how to protect Andrew papa?”

“Of course princess, but you don’t have to worry, no witch is going to hurt him if me or _tata_ are there.”

“But I want to protect him, he’s my little brother. Promise you will teach me.”

“Sure sweetheart, but sleep now ok? It's best we don't wake _tata_ he's tired from work.”

“Yes papa, goodnight papa.” she murmured before falling asleep almost immediately, her red head resting on his arm.

Peter sighed, and looked at his family with fondness. He would have never been whole again, he knew, but what he had now could probably come close to fill up the hole in his soul. Which was better than nothing, really.

 

 

 

 

Elise Williams became Daisy Claudia Stilinski-Hale at the tender age of three months, after her father killed her mother and took his own life. She had a really fair skin, little tufts of red hair on her head, big green eyes, and many, many adorable freckles on her chubby face. 

Stiles’ most terrifying moment of his life was when the social services put the little girl in his arms, after he and Peter were given the ok to adopt. She was so little, fragile as crystal, and he was sure that she would have break at the slightest movement, and he asked himself how  he and Peter would have been able to educate and protect that tiny human being until she was grown up ready to face the world on her own. 

Currently, she was seven years old, and Stiles was sure that she was one of the happiest girls on earth as her papa taught her and her half sister how to create a flower crown with the flowers of the Preserve - who knew Peter was able to do such a thing?

“C’mon little man,  _ tata  _ is here, he’s right here, see? Don’t cry, please.” Scott pleaded the four years old boy in his arms, who was currently sobbing and screaming and trying to get away from his godfather, waving his little hands towards his  _ tata _ . 

“Here here, I’m here.” Stiles said, not hiding his amusement as he finished to unpack the bag with the food for the picnic they were currently having, and took little Andrew Noah Stilinski-Hale from Scott, gently rocking back and forth while Andrew’s crying immediately stopped once he was in  _ tata’ _ s arms. He knew that he shouldn’t be so indulgent to his son capriciousness, but it took so long for Andrew to let himself being touched by him and Peter, let alone letting them picking him up, that he didn’t want to risk his trust by forcing him to socialize with the pack. There was time for that.  

Stiles took a tissue from his pocket and cleaned his son's face, looking at his big, watery brown eyes and sulky expression; he laughed, and gave a kiss on his blond head as Andrew started to doze off on his shoulder. 

“He always wants to be in mine or Peter’s arms, it’s ridiculous.”

“He probably feels safer there,” Scott said, looking at Andrew with fondness.

“I’m spoiling him and I shouldn’t be doing that, and you should stop spoiling him too.”

“No dude, I’m the cool uncle it’s my duty to spoil your kid rotten.”

Stiles sighed, amused, and turned towards Daisy when he heard her squealing in delight: Peter had just finished his flower crown, and had placed it on Daisy’s head, who was now running and jumping around her father and Malia while saying how much she like the flowers. Then, she run towards him, a messy flower crown in her hand.

“ _ Tata _ ,  _ tata  _ look! I made a flower crown, look!” she yelled while showing proudly the agglomerate of flowers she was able to put up together with the chubby hands.

“It’s beautiful  _ kochanie _ .”

“I made if for Andrew! Can I give it to him?!

“Andrew’s sleeping now, see? Don’t wake him up.” Stiles said, smiling tenderly at his daughter, who, dramatic as only a child could be, tried to be as careful as she could as she placed the flower crown in Andrew’s head. 

“Here, now he’s very handsome. Handsome like you and papa. Now I’m going to make another flower crown for you  _ tata _ !” she proclaimed, and immediately run back to her papa.

“Dude, that was too cute for words.” Scott murmured, almost clenching at his heart.

“I know.” 

“You are a really great father.”

Stiles didn’t know if it was true. God knew how many mistakes he and Peter did with Daisy and now Andrew, how difficult it was for them to understand their needs and satisfy them, with the threat of the social services always present. 

“Do you think I’ll be a good dad?” Scott asked, looking at Kira, who was sitting not far away from them at a table, chatting with Lydia and Melissa while caressing her seven month pregnant belly, his eyes full of love and adoration. 

Love wasn’t enough to take care of a child, but surely it was the most important part, and if there was a thing Scott lacked, that wasn’t love.

“You’ll do good.” Stiles said in the end, smiling as Daisy jumped on Peter to hug him, causing him to lie on the grass, both of them laughing as Malia shook her head with fondness. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we go with the ending!  
> Sorry if I'm late, but initially I wanted to write only Stiles' POV, but then I thought that I should have wrote peter's too since I did it of the other chapters, and well... this happened.  
> Hope you guys, enjoyed the fic, this was my first fic with Teen Wolf and I really enjoyed writing it!  
> Merry Christmas to all of you!

**Author's Note:**

> Amore che vai, da me tornerai/Love that goes, to me you'll come back  
> Amore che vieni, da me fuggirai/Love that comes, from me you will run


End file.
